


Johncroft Prompts

by Iolre



Series: The Minor Key Prompts [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Asexual Character, Asexual!Mycroft, Awkward Conversations, Canon Divergence, Crack, Dirty Talk, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, John is a good doctor, M/M, Mycroft is a bad patient, Pre-smut, prompts, sick!fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 08:03:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 12,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various Johncroft drabbles I've written and posted to my prompts tumblr. Various situations, from fluff to crack to smut to anything I'm prompted with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Explanation

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, all.
> 
> This is going to be a compilation of the Johncroft prompts given to me at my [prompts tumblr](http://minorsherlockprompts.tumblr.com) where I take prompts for minor pairings. Feel free to shoot me one if you want to see more Johncroft (or any other 'rare' pairing)!
> 
> Prompt: John deciding that it's finally time to explain to Sherlock that he's been seeing Mycroft. Sherlock, of course, worked it out almost as soon as it started, but let's John suffer through his awkward explanation anyway. :)

John cleared his throat, causing Sherlock’s attention to be drawn from the laptop. This probably wasn’t going to be the most pleasant conversation he would ever have in his lifetime - telling Sherlock that he had been dating his brother for six months behind his back was not going to go over well. They had been very careful to be discreet, staying mostly in Mycroft’s domain and avoiding being together in public as much as possible.

Sherlock sat aside the laptop and picked up his violin, plucking moodily at the strings. They had been out of cases for two weeks and he was hitting the stage of boredom that John hated the most. Well, time to jump in at the deep end, he supposed. “You’re going to need to find a new flatmate,” he said bluntly.

John was quite surprised when the only response he got was a raised eyebrow and a pause in the pizzicatto. “Did you meet someone, John?” Sherlock drawled.

“You could say that,” John said, skirting around the issue. Tea, he decided. He wasn’t going to face the conversation without a fresh mug in his hand. He stood up and walked to the kitchen, making two cups. Sherlock resumed plucking on the strings of the violin as he waited for John to come out, saying nothing and allowing the tension in the air to grow.

Once John came out to the sitting room, handing Sherlock his mug before he sat down, he became rather aware of how intently focused Sherlock’s eyes were on him. It was unnerving, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I met someone, about six months ago.”

Sherlock’s phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out. Without looking at it he texted an answer in reply, his scary eyes still focused on John. His fingers were completely still, and he wasn’t fidgeting. Briefly John wondered if it was the sign of the apocalypse. Probably. “Who, John?”

“No one important. Anyway. He, uh, asked me to move in with him, and I said yes.” It was even more awkward than he had anticipated, and he hadn’t even told Sherlock it was Mycroft yet.

“When?” Sherlock asked nonchalantly, as if he wasn’t even concerned with who it was. His gaze was on his phone, and he tapped out another text. He probably didn’t even care who it was. If John was completely honest, he suspected that Sherlock was already gleefully planning what to do with the extra space once John moved out.

“End of the month?”

“That’s not much time.” Sherlock made a thoughtful noise. “You must be serious, then.”

“Yeah, a bit,” John replied, trying to fight the blush that was creeping up in his cheeks. Dignified. He was supposed to be dignified. Not some blushing schoolgirl!

“Who, John?” Sherlock’s penetrating gaze turned towards him again, and John withered underneath it.

John coughed. “Your brother. I’ve been dating your brother.”

Silence reigned in the room, neither man saying anything.

The door swung open, and John watched in confusion as Greg walked in. “So I hear you’re moving in with Mycroft?” he asked John jovially.

John stared from Greg to Sherlock, watching the smuggest half-smile he had ever seen appear on the consulting detective’s face. “Mwuh?” he managed, trying to sound less like a strangled cat.

“Sherlock says I can move in.” Greg’s smile was a bit more strained, and he glanced from Sherlock to John, confusion in his eyes.

John’s gaze went back to Sherlock, and his eyes were wide. “Move in?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, although the smile lingered as Greg walked over and pressed a brief kiss to his lips. “Really, John. Did you think I would miss the fact you have been dating my repulsive brother for at least six months?”

“Sherlock,” Greg scolded, hanging up his jacket and walking into the kitchen.

John just stared. “You and - you and Greg?”

“Yup!” Greg said cheerfully from the kitchen. “Been what - about a year now?”

“One year, two months, three days,” Sherlock rattled off, reaching for his violin and plucking at the strings.

Greg paused in whatever he was doing in the kitchen and came out, eyeing John critically. “You look like you could use a pint.”

“Or three,” John muttered.

“Three it is,” Greg declared, grabbing John by the arm and tossing his jacket at him. “I’ll be by later, Sherlock.”

“I have already deleted both of you from mind,” Sherlock replied, grabbing his bow.

Greg snorted and tugged a still-confused John out the door. “Don’t worry,” the DI assured him. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk once we’ve got a couple pints down.”

Oh good, John thought. Alcohol made everything better.


	2. Oh My

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: john meets mycroft before he meets sherlock
> 
> Warnings: pre-smut, top!John, dirty talk.

“You could just phone me. On my phone.” Mycroft, his pose previously casual, tensed at the sound of the man’s voice, his eyes widening fractionally as he came into view.

“Oh, my,” he breathed, closing his eyes briefly. His mind rolled backwards, to being thrown onto the bed, pinned down, taken, plundered...forcibly he ignored the way his cock twitched in his trousers. Highly inappropriate.

But then again, so was what the person in front of him had done to him. Not that there had been a problem, of course. Mycroft had enjoyed every moment of it. It had been just that one night, one encounter, no names - a release for both of them. Mycroft had never expected to see him again, never expected the man to be - of all things - his little brother’s new flatmate.

When he opened his eyes, he saw that John was watching him intently, as if trying to place him. So he didn’t have Mycroft’s memory, then. “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?” Mycroft was pleased with his ability to keep his voice steady, disconnected. As if he had never met the man in front of him, never had John’s cock in his mouth or his arse. Or both.

“Not much of one. I met him yesterday.” John tilted his head, studying him intently. “Have we met before?”

Mycroft thanked the years of training he had received for the ability to keep his face immobile and not let the blush that threatened to do so creep up his neck onto his face. “I don’t believe so.” He pulled out the notebook out of his jacket pocket, flipping it open and consulting a page briefly. How had he not seen it before? Having seen John in person, he could match up what he had learned about the man to the night they had spent together. “Now, I am prepared to offer a substantial sum of money in return for…”

Something caused him to look up, and although he did not step backwards, it was a near thing. John had walked forward a few steps, came dangerously close to invading Mycroft’s personal space. The cane was clasped loosely in John’s hand, mimicking the umbrella Mycroft held. Mycroft swallowed, aware his throat was rather dry. This was not going the way it was supposed to.

“Information,” he finished weakly.

A spark of awareness flashed over John’s face, and this time Mycroft could not stop himself from taking a step backwards. The adrenaline pulsed through Mycroft’s veins, and he could feel himself continue to grow hard in his trousers. Which was a bad thing, as fine-tailored as they were. They didn’t hide much. “I don’t think that’s what you’re looking for.” There was a smug, confident smile on the army doctor’s face, and Mycroft’s breath hitched in his throat, his heart rate accelerating.

“I worry about him, Dr. Watson. Constantly.” Deflection. That was his only strategy.

The energy that crackled between them as John stepped forward the last amount and put himself squarely in Mycroft’s personal space was so intense that Mycroft could barely breathe, could barely think. It was as if John was going from his unassuming, jumper-clad self and morphing into Captain Watson. Mycroft stared up at the ceiling, afraid to meet John’s gaze.

The base of the army doctor’s cane tapped the bottom of Mycroft’s chin, and Mycroft’s cheeks flushed acutely red. His breathing was fluttery, gasping, and he was completely hard. “I don’t think that’s what we’re talking about, here.” John’s voice was low, and raspy. Absently Mycroft’s mind registered John’s arousal, but all he could think of was what was going on, how so fucking out of control the situation had spiraled.

“I don’t know,” Mycroft breathed.

The cane tapped again. “Dragging me out here, all out of my way. Not very polite, that.”

“No.” Mycroft knew the answer to that one. He felt stripped bare, as if he was naked under John’s intense gaze. It was heady, and thrilling, and terrifying at the same time. Despite that, he felt completely safe. John would take care of him. Mycroft could examine the notion later.

“I think you should make it up to me.” John’s head tilted roguishly to the side, and Mycroft swallowed, a soft, choked noise escaping him without any deliberate action on his part.

“Yes, sir.”

“How are you going to do that, hmm?”

“However you want me to, sir.” Mycroft gulped, barely able to stay standing. He was quite surprised that his knees had not buckled, although they were certainly shaking, and he was painfully hard in his trousers.

John thought about this for a moment. “Look at me, slut.” Mycroft shuddered and lowered his head, meeting John’s gaze squarely. The barest hint of a smile crossed John’s lips. “Good. Now, I’m going to take you back to your place - yeah, yours. And I’m going to find something to tie you up like a nice little present, and then I’m going to fuck you senseless.”

Mycroft couldn’t breathe, held in place by those unearthly blue eyes and the filthiness of the other man’s words. He couldn’t remember a time he had ever been addressed in such a way - nor could he remember a time he had been more turned on.

John slapped him. Not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to sting. “I didn’t hear an answer, you filthy slut. Would you like that, hmm? All tied up, ready for my cock, begging for it?”

Mycroft tried not to let out a choked sob, or the keening whine that threatened to escape him. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, then.” John’s head tilted in the direction of the car. Nearly dizzy with arousal, Mycroft managed to regain his dignity (or what was left of it), and quickly led the way to the waiting vehicle.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Hello! I have this idea stuck in my head but my English skills aren't good enough to write it myself. It's a Johncroft prompt. Mycroft, the British Government himself has fallen ill with the flu. Luckily he has his own doctor right beside himself. Perhaps you are interested in this. I would be delighted!

John quickly walked up the steps to Mycroft’s flat, pushing open the door and locking it firmly behind him. Turning, he immediately saw the Mycroft-sized lump of blankets on the couch and winced, apologetic. “Hello, love,” he murmured, walking over and examining it intently. The pile of blankets began to move, until finally Mycroft’s face emerged, damp and sweaty, with his auburn/ginger hair stuck to his skin. “The ‘flu?”

For a moment Mycroft tried to compose himself, tried to bring back the imperiousness of the British Government. All he succeeded in doing was looking more miserable. “Yes,” he answered reluctantly. His voice was hoarse and raspy and John cringed in sympathy.

“Let’s get you some water and some tablets, see if we can bring your fever down and get you feeling better.” John stroked a strand of sweat-damp hair out of Mycroft’s eyes, affectionate, before walking to the kitchen. He flipped on the kettle, measuring out loose-leaf tea for both Mycroft and himself before placing the infusers in the mugs. Next he turned to the bags, sorting out the contents. Tablets, cold compresses, straws - he placed each one in its own pile.

The kettle went off and John poured the boiling water into the mugs, allowing the tea to steep before pulling out the loose leaf and disposing of it. He grabbed one mug and carried it over to the sofa, setting it down on the table. “Alright,” John murmured. “Let’s get you sat up.” Gently he helped Mycroft move into more of a sitting position, pausing when Mycroft’s head spun and allowing him to adjust to the movement.

Carefully he lifted the mug off of the table and placed it in Mycroft’s shaky hands. “Echinacea. It’ll help with your cold.”

“Yes, thank you,” Mycroft replied quietly, meekly. He sipped the tea, closing his eyes and reveling in the warmth. Satisfied, John walked back to the counter and quickly gathered a cold compress, a few tablets, and made a glass of water with a straw for once Mycroft was done with the tea. Mycroft eyed him skeptically as he returned, and John was gratified to see that the politician was nearly done with the tea. “A straw?” he rasped.

“Let’s get these tablets in you.” John gently placed them in Mycroft’s hand, careful to ensure that the politician put them in his mouth before allowing him to sip the water. Then he placed the glass on the table in front of them. John chuckled quietly, taking the empty mug from Mycroft and placing it next to the glass of water. His tea was probably cooling the counter, but he discovered that he didn’t really mind. Mycroft shifted miserably on the couch, creating a spot for John. The doctor took the hint, settling onto the couch, and Mycroft curled up next to him, his head on John’s thigh, nestled as close to John as he could manage.

“You really are sick, love,” John said softly, trying to stamp down the worry he felt rising in his stomach. It was rare that Mycroft was so needy, but John couldn’t deny that he liked it. Carefully he arranged the cold compress on his forehead, helping to lower the fever a bit. If he was lucky it would relieve the pressure building up in Mycroft’s ears. “Time for you to get more sleep,” he told his patient.

Mycroft made a disgusted noise. “Been sleeping forever.”

John chuckled. “Forever as in two hours, maximum. You need more sleep than that to heal.”

Mycroft muttered something nonsensical and burrowed closer to John. It wasn’t long before he was asleep, his breathing even, and John stroked a hand through his hair, warm, comforting. It was oddly sweet, seeing Mycroft asleep like this. He looked so young and carefree, as if there wasn’t a thing that could bother him.

John knew it wouldn’t last, knew that tomorrow would bring more challenges and less sleep for the man he loved. But for now, he was going to shield Mycroft from his work and let him heal.

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s head and settled down to steal some sleep of his own. In mere moments, he was asleep.


	4. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt: There he was, in the sports center and wrapped in Semtex, and all John Watson could think of was how he wished he had the chance to kiss Mycroft Holmes before he die. (or a Johncroft in which a brush with death makes both John and Mycroft realize their feelings)

“Sir, I think there’s something you need to see.” Anthea’s crisp voice startled Mycroft, although he didn’t allow his expression to flicker an iota.

“Yes?” Mycroft looked up at her, eyebrows slightly lifted, his face intent.

“Follow me.” She turned on her heels, not waiting for Mycroft to stand and follow before she walked to a door and typed in a small code on the keypad on the wall. The door slid open and Anthea led the way to a small room full of large monitors. Mycroft scanned the monitors, noting with mild interest the various areas they covered. He paused, about a third of the way in. “Monitors 3B, 3C, and 3D, sir.”

“Yes, I see,” Mycroft said absently, his entire focus directed towards the monitors in question. It felt like the world had dropped out underneath him, that everything had suddenly gone fuzzy and what he had just been working on moments before, no longer mattered, despite its threat to national security.

John Watson was standing with his hands on his coat, next to a pool - a gym? Sherlock was standing with a gun pointed just over his shoulders, at a thin man behind both of them. What caught Mycroft’s attention, however, was the semtex vest underneath John’s coat. After years of experience, Mycroft could spot a bomb in a glance. This one, however. This one made his blood run cold for another reason.

It had started as a simmer, the first time he met the army doctor. Intrigue driven by the way he didn’t flinch, the way he stood up to him, almost mocked him. Few dared to defy him so openly, much less be sassy about it. Then John had shot someone for Sherlock, to protect him. It had been a convenient excuse to increase the surveillance on the pair. Gain footage that Mycroft could examine, memorising mannerisms and habits that were every bit as unique as the man himself.

“What are we doing to handle this?” Mycroft said, his voice deceptively mild.

“Medical teams are on standby. Tactical teams are on alert, but no interference will occur unless deemed absolutely necessary.” Anthea’s eyes flickered to him and then back to the screen.

Mycroft watched, alternating between captivated and horrified, as Sherlock ripped the semtex vest off of John and throwing it as far away as it would slide. A vague part of him was jealous that he wasn’t the one ripping off John’s clothes, but the saner part pointed out that there was a time and place for such things, and bomb involvement safely disqualified that particular moment from being one of those contexts. “Prepare the tactical team for deployment.” Anthea spoke into her small watch, the connecting device that must have linked her to the teams.

“Wait,” Mycroft commanded. He wanted to reach out, wanted to touch John through the screen, feel his skin, kiss his lips. But he couldn’t.

“Sir?” Anthea looked at him, quizzical, and Mycroft realized that without his permission, his hand had started reaching towards the screen. He drew it back towards his side, fighting to remain detached.

“I do not think it is over yet.” Mycroft inclined his head slightly towards the monitor, where the slim man had appeared. “I want screen captures of him. Run him through recognition databases. We need to know who he is.”

“Yes, sir.” Anthea sat down at the computer screen, and Mycroft watched intently as the gun shifted to the bomb. Then the phone call, and Mycroft lifted an eyebrow at the lack of courtesy as the man answered.

“See if you can get a trace on the call.”

“Yes, sir.” She sat down at the computer, and started typing rapidly. Mycroft stepped closer to the screen, examining the expressions that crossed the man’s face. Eventually he left.

“Call off the teams,” Mycroft ordered. “And call my driver. I need to make a trip.” He wasn’t going to do anything, wasn’t going to touch. Just wanted to make sure, see with his own eyes, that both men had escaped the ordeal safe and unharmed. Turning around, Mycroft strode out of the corridor and out of his office, closing it securely behind him. The car port wasn’t that far away, and he slid into the back seat of the car as it drove up next to him. “221B.”

He was more jittery than normal, on the way to their flat. Mycroft wasn’t normally prone to fidgeting, but his leg bounced, his fingers insistently smoothed out non-existent wrinkles in his clothes, and he could barely sit still, eyes flickering restlessly, taking everything in. Finally they arrived, his driver sliding smoothly up to the pavement. Mycroft stepped outside, umbrella in hand. He took a deep breath before walking towards the door.

Before he could go inside, the door opened, and John emerged, an odd half-smile on his face when he caught sight of the elder Holmes brother. “Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” Mycroft replied, outwardly calm. He ignored the fact his heart was racing, how he felt breathless, how his stomach was doing flips. That sort of giddiness was reserved for teenagers, and Mycroft was none of the sort.

John crowded him, turning him around, pushing him to walk backwards until Mycroft was back against the wall. Mycroft spared the slightest of apologies for his suit being corrupted by the dirt of the wall before John’s lips were on his, kissing him fiercely. John’s hands slid to Mycroft’s middle, resting there. Not insistent, just present. It took a few moments before Mycroft’s shock faded and he kissed back, mouths opening to allow for tongues, heated and plundering, adrenaline manifesting itself in a physical form.

Finally John pulled back, and Mycroft stared, eyes wide. He was half-hard in his well-tailored trousers, a fact that was obviously apparent to the smirking army doctor, and for once, he was speechless. “Hello,” Mycroft croaked, drawing a short laugh from John.

“Wanted to do that once, before I died,” John explained, a hand going up to Mycroft’s cheek, stroking his face tenderly.

“Oh.” Mycroft blinked, trying to pull his brain back online. “I am glad, I believe.” John chuckled, and Mycroft hesitated. “Would you - would you care for dinner?”

John reached up and kissed him again, softer, sweeter. “Yes, I think I would.”


	5. Demonstrations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off of this prompt: Sherstrade or Johncroft: One of them wears something different from what they usually wear, and the other person got turned on by it (｡･ω･｡)

John walked up to Mycroft’s door, knocking politely. “The door is unlocked.” Mycroft’s voice was warm, welcoming, and John turned the knob, pushing open the door and walking in. It was the first time he had gone over to Mycroft’s house, the first time they had met anywhere other than public or 221B. He couldn’t deny that he was at least a little bit nervous.

“I brought wine,” John said, lifting the bag. He stood inside the doorway, glancing around. There was a spacious living room off to the side of the kitchen, with a hallway that lead further into the house on the opposite side. Mycroft popped his head out of the kitchen, a smile on his face.

“Thank you. Set it on the table, make yourself comfortable. Would you like some tea?” he asked, tilting his head.

“I’m good, thanks,” John replied, stepping forward and placing the wine on the table before moving into the kitchen. He stopped at the entrance and stared. Mycroft was finishing something on the oven, moving about pans, turning knobs. But that wasn’t what had caught his attention.

Mycroft was dressed differently. Casually. Jeans, slim and fitted. Shoes a notch down his normal formality level. A t-shirt. John stared, and swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, his heartbeat accelerating. Mycroft half-turned and saw him, his face shifting, becoming concerned. “Are you alright? You don’t have a fever, do you?”

“Ah - no.” John blinked, mentally shook himself. “You look - different, is all.” Mycroft paused, a light flush dotting his cheeks, and he smoothed the shirt down, suddenly self-conscious. “Good different,” John rushed to clarify. He coughed, ran a hand through his hair. “Um. Very good.” Aware he was babbling, he averted his eyes, looking anywhere but at his boyfriend. “Do you need an extra hand?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I am good, thank you.” He switched a knob, pulled a pan off, started plating the simple dish. It was pasta, sauce, and chicken. Something simple yet elegant. John watched him plate the food, watched the way Mycroft moved with an easy grace throughout the kitchen. Watched the way the denim tightened over and accentuated his arse when he bent over. The way the shirt tightened, showing how trim the elder Holmes brother actually was. John’s cock was rapidly hardening at the frankly inappropriate display. Compared to Mycroft’s normal attire, he might as well have been naked with a sign that said ‘Fuck me’ taped to his back.

Still, when Mycroft turned around with the plates, John was careful to stay out of his way. He was certain if he accidentally touched Mycroft the world would explode, or something equally dramatic. They ate dinner together in a quiet, contemplative silence, John praising the dish much to Mycroft’s satisfaction. Once they were done eating they retired to the sofa where Mycroft turned on the telly. John didn’t notice what was on. He didn’t really care. He was watching Mycroft’s long, nimble fingers resting on his thighs. The way his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed, the way his lips curved when he smiled.

It wasn’t long before Mycroft’s thigh was flush against his own, and John took advantage of their closeness, swinging himself around and settling onto Mycroft’s lap. The politician blinked at him, cheeks flushing. “Hello,” Mycroft murmured, lips curving into a soft smile.

John captured Mycroft’s lips with his own and kissed him enthusiastically. The time for talking was over. John was going to take an ample amount of time to demonstrate just how much he appreciated Mycroft’s casual wear. And then maybe he’d show it again, just to be thorough. One never could be too careful with demonstrating such things.


	6. The Baker on Baker Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off of this prompt: John is a baker at a bakery in Baker street (lol) Mycroft often stops by for tea, cake and a chat, which John obliges. (basically romcom bakery AU lol sorry)

John looked up from cleaning the counters as the bell on the door rang, and a wide smile broke out on his face. A tall, distinguished gentleman walked up to the display, examining the contents intently. John polished the last bit of the counter and sat the rag aside, tilting his head to the side, waiting. The taller man turned his head towards John, like he had made a decision. Then he saw John and slowly his lips curved into a soft, warm smile.

“John.” The light voice was smooth, pleased, and John couldn’t deny the way it made his heart speed up. “How nice it is to see you.”

“Hello, Mycroft,” John replied cheerfully. “The usual?”

“Yes, thank you.” Mycroft leaned forward, pressed the tip of his umbrella into the floor. “Would you care to join me? I very much appreciate your company, if you are able to spare a few moments.”

John’s grin got impossibly wider. “Let me check with the boss while I get your tea steeping,” he said. It was the first time Mycroft had him to take a break and join him for a bit, and he nearly tripped over his own feet as he turned around. He set Mycroft’s tea to steeping and then poked his head in the back. “Mrs. Hudson?” The small woman who was John’s boss looked up from where she was finishing decorating some pastries.

“Yes, dear?” Her voice was light and airy, sweet and grandmotherly, and despite John’s struggles with his own parents, Mrs. Hudson always made him feel at home.

“Um, uh, can you mind the shop for a bit?” John hated how he stumbled over his words sometimes when he got flustered. It wasn’t professional and really, he wanted to be his best for their little chat. John wasn’t sure what to make of Mycroft’s request, but he sure wasn’t going to say no.

Mrs. Hudson studied John’s face for a moment, and then her face lit up. “Meeting someone special, are we?” She had not been quiet in expressing her desire for John to eventually find someone nice. To her he was a good lad, and he deserved to have someone nice to go home to.

“Er, sort of?” John raised a hand to scratch his head and stopped just in time. Out of habit he went and rinsed his hands. “One of our regular customers asked me to join him for a bit, is all.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled shrewdly. “The nice young man with an umbrella?” John nodded. “Alright, then. I’ll manage the shop for a bit, you get your nice young man his tea and cake and you two have a pleasant chat.”

John grinned, drying his hands off. “Thanks.” He leaned in and kissed her cheek, ignoring the bit of frosting he got on his shirt.

She tittered at him and shooed him with a towel. “Go, go. I’ll be there in a moment.”

John ducked out of the back room and removed the infuser, handing the cup to Mycroft who had been quietly waiting. “Sorry bout that,” he said, apologetic. Next he removed the cake from the display case and sat it on a plate, setting it next to the tea. Mycroft went to pull out his wallet and John quickly swiped the card, handing it back as soon as the payment went through. Once that was finished, he shifted from foot to foot, trying not to betray his nervousness. They had chatted before, mostly during Mycroft’s visits - talked about the weather, life, school - small talk but oh so important in several ways. But this was a first.

Not that it wasn’t welcome. John had been attracted to the other man from the first moment they met, and that attraction had simply continued to grow over their association. Mycroft was passionate about his work and the good it could do for people, and although he couldn’t talk about it, John could see how much he cared.

Mrs. Hudson emerged from the back and winked in their direction. “Take your time, dear, I can watch the shop for a bit,” she said, encouraging. John tried not to blush, but took off his apron, slinging it into the kitchen onto the stand before stepping out from behind the counter.

“Guess I’m yours for a bit,” he told Mycroft with a wink. John tried not to look victorious as a faint pink blush spread across the man’s cheeks.

They settled at a small table near the window, and John sipped from his mug as Mycroft daintily sipped his tea. “I have been thinking,” Mycroft started, and John watched him carefully, anticipating. He felt like there were butterflies in his stomach, and couldn’t recall the last time he had been quite so nervous. “Would you be opposed to a more casual association outside of your workplace? Nothing complex, I assure you.”

John blinked, startled, and took a drink as he tried to sort through Mycroft’s words and find the true meaning. “You want to meet outside of work?” he tried.

Mycroft inclined his head slightly, looking at John intently, like he was reading every thought that passed through his mind. “I was wondering if you would be opposed to potentially joining myself for dinner at some point, time permitting.”

“You’re asking me out on a date?” John said slowly. The flush on Mycroft’s cheeks was darker now, beautifully pink against his pale skin.

Mycroft closed his eyes briefly, as if gathering courage. “You could say that, yes.” He deliberately sipped his tea, watching John over the cup.

“Wednesday, at 6pm?” John inquired.

Mycroft sat the cup down, eyes wide. “You - yes?”

“Yes,” John replied with a grin. He pulled a pen off the table and scribbled his mobile number on one of the napkins and passing it over to Mycroft. “Call me and we can arrange details, yeah?”

“Yes, of course,” Mycroft answered immediately, still a bit shocked. Mrs. Hudson waved from the counter and John half-turned.

“I’ve got to get back to work,” John said apologetically. He stood, stepping closer and using a hand to gently tilt Mycroft’s chin up. Mycroft’s eyes bored into his, and John felt his skin tingle, felt Mycroft’s desire, all the way to the tips of his toes, his fingers. He leaned down and kissed him gently, lingering for a moment. “See you later.” John winked and quickly went back to his work.


	7. Wrong Impressions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on this prompt: John tags along with Mycroft and Sherlock to a family christmas dinner/holiday party. Everybody thinks dear Sherlock finally brings home a lover and Mycroft is just so fed up he proposed there and then. (Bonus if later he proposed again properly and it's all romantic and they kisssss <3)

“So - John, was it? - what is it like, living with Sherlock?” One of Mycroft’s cousins asked politely, sipping her tea.

“Good, thank you,” John replied with a polite smile. He was sat next to Sherlock, with Mycroft opposite him, both near the head of the table.

“We are pleased that Sherlock finally found someone,” Mummy Holmes commented from the head of the table, just to Mycroft’s right. He tensed, and John coughed uncertainly, glancing from Mummy to Mycroft.

“Yes, it was very unexpected,” Sherlock said, the corner of his lips crooking up into a pleased smile.

“He seems to be - what is the colloquialism? A very good catch,” the cousin to Mycroft’s left said, agreeing.

“I would agree.” Sherlock’s smirk grew, and Mycroft’s hands tightened on the table. John looked just as bewildered, although there was a faint red growing on his cheeks. Anger, maybe? Movement in John’s body led Mycroft to deduce that John had stomped on Sherlock’s foot. Retribution.

“Pardon me?” John said mildly, placing the silverware on the table and looking from person to person.

“Was it supposed to be a secret? We have just been waiting so long for Sherlock to find a partner that we weren’t sure it would ever happen.” Mummy Holmes dabbed her mouth with a napkin, a rueful smile on her face.

It had taken Mycroft two years to work up the courage to bring John to a family dinner, for fear of scaring him off when his family learned that he was dating Mycroft. The current outcome was not one he had anticipated, nor was it one he was pleased with. Sherlock, however, seemed to be having fun with it. “Mycroft, perhaps next year you will have someone to bring with you,” his mother said gently. Mycroft’s knuckles were white with force, and if the wood had been any lighter, there would have been marks.

“Unfortunately, I fear a mistake has been made,” Mycroft said stiffly.

“Pardon?” One of the cousins blinked, looked confused. Mycroft pushed back from the table, his movements jerky out of anger, and quickly walked around the table to gently tip John’s head back before claiming his mouth.

“Marry me,” Mycroft murmured against John’s lips. The army doctor blinked at him, visibly confused.

“What?” John mumbled, distracted.

Mycroft kissed him again, sweet, tender, and then turned to look at his relatives. “John is my partner, not Sherlock’s. We apologize for any sort of misunderstanding.” He slipped an arm around John’s shoulders, protective, possessive. Next he turned to Sherlock, his eyes narrowing, the faintest scowl of disapproval contorting his lips. “Good heavens, Sherlock. What would your - shall we call him your man? What would your man think, if he knew you were giving the impression of giving your heart to another?” He tsked.

Sherlock startled - it was almost imperceptible, just a slight widening of the eyes, before he hid his reaction with a scowl. “That is none of your business,” he snapped.

John had leaned into Mycroft’s touch, and he kissed his head, gentle. “I think we shall be going now.” He straightened up, released John, and quickly pressed a kiss to his mother’s cheek. “Sorry to leave early, Mummy, but I fear I have been neglecting my - responsibilities.”

She simply nodded, eyes focused thoughtfully on Sherlock, only occasionally flickering to Mycroft and John. Mycroft waited for John to stand and stepped closer, eyes warm. John slipped his arm through Mycroft’s, linking them, and together they left the vast Holmes Estate. “Dinner?” Mycroft said quietly, a tinge of apology in his voice. He hadn’t caused such a disturbance at a dinner before, but it had been worth it. John was his, no one else’s, no matter what they thought.

“Sure,” John agreed.

They ended up at one of their favourite restaurants, one Mycroft often took John to when they wanted something that was less formal than what Mycroft had to endure for work. Mycroft ordered some of their best wine, feeling a glass or two would do much to relax them. “That was probably the most awkward dinner I have ever been to,” John commented, picking up his glass and sipping it.

“Our family dinners do have quite the reputation, I’m afraid,” Mycroft allowed, tasting his own wine and finding it to his satisfaction. A comfortable silence spooled out between them, each man drinking wine, thinking, and watching each other. “I was not lying, what I said. It was a sincere question.”

“Oh?” John asked, feigning ignorance.

Mycroft sat his wine down. He wasn’t certain if he had gone mad, or if the wine was making him bolder, lowering his inhibitions. Perhaps a mixture of both. “Making our union more - permanent. Formally so. The paperwork is dull, I’m afraid, but quite painless otherwise.”

John lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

Mycroft ignored the urge to remind John that being a prat was never appreciated. He smiled diplomatically. “Of course not.” Carefully he walked around the table and fell to one knee in front of John, sliding out of his pocket a small velvet box and popping it open. “Dr. Watson. John.” Mycroft stilled the urge to roll his eyes at the absurdity of what he was doing. “Would you be amenable to formalizing our union?”

“English, Mycroft.” John seemed far too amused, and Mycroft allowed a slight sigh to escape him.

“Would you marry me?” He offered John the platinum ring inside. It was nothing special, and would be replaced by wedding bands, but he had been raised to believe that an engagement ring, even among same-sex spouses, were important.

John tipped up Mycroft’s chin with his fingers and caught his lips in a slow, tender kiss. “Yes,” he murmured, a smile lighting up his face. “Yes, I will.”


	8. Losing Track of Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off of this prompt: Mycroft working on an international crisis looks after himself about as well as Sherlock does when he's on a case. He's always had to deal with the consequences by himself. Could you write the first time John's there to look after him once they start dating? owo

Mycroft’s mobile rang and he stifled a groan, stepping through the door to his home and shutting it behind him. He forced himself to be diplomatic, to be awake, and he pulled the phone out of his trouser pocket and answered it, pressing it to his ear. “Hello?”

“Mycroft?” The politician groaned internally. John. When was the last time they had talked? What had he missed?

“Ah, John,” Mycroft murmured, briefly distracted by his own exhaustion. “Hello.”

There was silence on the phone for a few moments, and then John sighed, seemingly relieved. “You picked up.”

“The phone? Yes.” Mycroft found himself nodding in agreement with himself, and shook his head, trying to jolt himself out of the stupor. Instead he found himself heading up towards his bedroom, determined to change into something more comfortable.

There was another pause, and when John spoke, he sounded mildly concerned. “Mycroft, do you know what day it is?”

Mycroft didn’t, but he gave his best guess. His internal clock couldn’t be that far off, after all. “Tuesday.”

“Not quite,” John informed him quietly. “Hang tight, I’m on my way.”

Mycroft stared at the phone as it hung up, hoping he could somehow telepathically communicate and have John not get within seeing distance of him. Unfortunately, it seemed his telepathy was on the blink, and instead he sat the phone aside and began the arduous task of undressing and changing into something more comfortable. Piece by piece his suit came off, and instead of meticulously hanging it up, Mycroft spread it across the room. Trousers, socks, and shoes on the floor. Jacket on the chair. Waistcoat on top of the wardrobe. Shirt on the other side of the room. Anywhere was fair game.

By the time he stood in just his pants, he was half asleep standing up and all thoughts of a proper meal before bed had been abandoned. Tea. He could make some tea. He could survive tea. Sliding his hands into the draw, he picked a shirt with his eyes closed, sorting it out with sensitive fingers so he could pull it on properly. Next were pyjama bottoms. He did have to open his eyes to step into those. Once he was dressed - soft, worn cotton trousers and a loose shirt for sleeping - he plodded back down to the kitchen, leaving his mobile forgotten on the nightstand.

He was dozing against the kitchen counter when he heard the door open. Struggling to keep his eyes open, he smiled slightly at his boyfriend, who had stopped the moment he turned around, his eyebrows shooting into his hairline. “It’s Thursday,” John informed him once he had stopped staring.

“Oh.” Mycroft frowned. He had lost at least two days. That was bad. John sat down an overnight bag by the door and stepped into the kitchen, his eyes warm.

“You look - nice,” he informed Mycroft.

Mycroft shrugged, turning to grab the kettle and two mugs of tea. “Thank you,” he said absently, his focus on carefully pouring the boiling water into the mugs without burning himself. It was an oddly difficult task. Once the cuppas were steeping, he turned back, only to find John right behind him. The shorter man pressed closer, leaning up to give Mycroft a chaste kiss.

“When was the last time you slept?” John inquired quietly, winding an arm about Mycroft’s middle.

Mycroft’s mouth opened for a few moments and then closed. “An hour’s nap on Saturday,” he said finally.

“Thought so.” John nodded slightly. “Now I know where Sherlock gets it from.” He kissed Mycroft to cut off a half-formed objection. “Let’s get some tea in you, piece of toast, and then something bigger when you get up.” Letting go of Mycroft, John went and grabbed some bread and popped it into the toaster. “Maybe a bit of jam, that never hurts.”

“You put jam on everything,” Mycroft muttered, more flustered than anything else. He could feel a blush rising in his cheeks. It was the first time anyone had ever seen him so close to the finish of handling an international crisis, and it was rare for him to be so vulnerable around someone else. But John was different - John was secure, a protector. Mycroft felt comfortable around him, even dressed as casually as he was.

John chuckled, and when Mycroft offered him a mug of tea with shaky hands, John took it and gave Mycroft a piece of toast slathered in jam. The politician nibbled the toast quietly until he finished it, sipping tea between bites. He felt sleepy and full by the time he was done, nearly asleep on his feet. “Let’s get you to bed,” John murmured, wrapping an arm about Mycroft and leading him to the bedroom.

Mycroft felt himself helped under the duvet, shifted so that Mycroft’s long frame was spread over John’s stocky one, head on John’s chest with the shorter man’s arm wrapped possessively about his waist. He had never told John, but it was one of his favourite ways to sleep. Their legs tangled, and John stroked Mycroft’s hair, occasionally pressing a kiss to the soft strands, comforting, soothing. “Good night,” John murmured gently. “Sweet dreams.”

Mumbling what he hoped sounded like ‘thank you’, Mycroft quickly fell asleep.


	9. Nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off of this prompt: John knew that the younger Holmes play the violin, but he never knew the older Holmes play the piano. He was in for a treat he never expected. (In other words, I'd love to see Mycroft serenading John eheheh)

John threw himself into a sitting position, chest heaving, eyes wide. For long moments he could feel the dry wind of the desert, taste the acrid smell of blood, see the wide expanse of the desert, little else around him. He choked back a sob, eyes closing as he fought to regain control. It was his first nightmare in a long time, nearly a year. They had came back after Sherlock had jumped, but stopped after about six months. However, with Sherlock’s return just two weeks ago, John was not surprised that they had emerged to torment him yet again.

His clothes clung to him, wet with sweat, and he grimaced down at the now-damp bedcovers. He wasn’t certain where Mycroft kept the replacements - although he had started sleeping over at his boyfriend’s a few months ago, this was the first nightmare he had experienced in his home. John was just glad Mycroft had not been in the bed with him. Carefully he eased shaky legs over the side of the bed and stood, waiting to ensure that he had his balance.

Stripping off his sweat-soaked clothes, he tossed them to the side, resolving to pick them up later and padded over to his overnight bag. He slid on a clean pair of pants and pulled on a dry pair of pyjama bottoms, not bothering with a shirt. Turning around, he saw Mycroft leaning against the doorframe, watching him with soft eyes. “The clean sheets are in that closet, yeah?” John jerked his head to a small closet not far from the door.

Mycroft nodded, moving to the side of the bed opposite John and starting to strip the bed of its covers. Together they changed the sheets, tucking in the new edges. Once they were finished both stood, John staring at the bed, although he could feel Mycroft’s eyes on him. “Come with me,” Mycroft said quietly. Not forcefully, but questioning - respectful. If John said no, he would not pressure him.

But John didn’t say no. “Alright.” Mycroft led the way from the room, John walking next to him. He didn’t seek Mycroft’s hand, didn’t seek physical contact. The nightmare had left him feeling disconcerted, a bit detached from the real world. He sought comfort in the way their shoulders brushed, the way their hands touched, but was glad that Mycroft did not push, did not try and initiate more contact than what they had accidentally. It would have been too much.

They stepped into the sitting room, near the front. It was one of John’s favourite rooms. Large bay windows, a piano, and a couch, along with bookshelves, a lamp or two - all in homey colours, nothing stilted and formal. “Lay down, please,” Mycroft murmured, and John nodded, crossing to the large, plush couch and sinking down onto it with a pleased sigh. The fabric cradled his body, easing all of his aches, and he felt the last of the tension seeping from his muscles. Still, he couldn’t sleep. There was a droning in his mind, something that was preventing him from tipping over the last edge.

He turned his head, able to see Mycroft settling at the piano, and lifted his eyebrows. “Piano?” John said incredulously.

“Sherlock is not the only one with musical inclinations,” Mycroft said, sounding vaguely offended, and John chuckled. “I estimate that you have trouble sleeping after your nightmares, and music can be soothing for some people.”

John watched Mycroft slide onto the piano bench, lifting the piano cover and caressing the keys with his long fingers. It was nearly sinful, the way he handled the piano, even when dressed in his suits. John still felt vaguely guilty for disrupting Mycroft’s work, but he was too appreciative of Mycroft’s presence to feel bad.

“Sleep,” Mycroft murmured, and John watched as his fingers danced over the keys and he started to play a sweet lullaby. It wasn’t a tune that John recognised, not that it said much, for his knowledge of classical music was limited. Mycroft’s eyes were closed, his face intense as he concentrated, body moving as his long, slender fingers pressed the keys from which the music came. It was like he was coaxing the notes from a lover, and the way his fingers caressed the keys should probably be illegal in several countries. Maybe it was, John mused sleepily, and that was why he had never seen Mycroft play before.

John tried his best to stay awake, tried to watch his partner, the side he had never seen before and so desperately wanted to see again. Despite his best efforts, he felt his eyes slowly close, and before he knew it, he was asleep, the music still playing quietly in the background.


	10. A Better Offer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on this prompt: John is an assassin hired to kill Mycroft, but Mycroft turned him around and gives him a better offer. With plenty of perks on the side ifyouknowwhatImsaying -wiggles eyebrows-

John slid open the window, silent as a mouse, and stepped inside, shutting it so that his target didn’t feel a breeze. He didn’t want anything to give away his presence. It had taken months of work for this single opportunity, and his clients did not want him to waste it. His target was secretive and well-guarded, which was another mark in his clients’ favour. John mentally rolled his eyes, catching sight of the man he was there to kill, and slid the silenced gun out of its holster.

One shot was all he had, especially if he wanted to make it out of there alive. With a silenced gun he might have had two, but it was a risk he didn’t want to take. Sharp eyes took in his target, the way he slept, and quickly mapped out the most vital areas. John lifted his gun and took aim, adjusting in small amounts before allowing his finger to pull the trigger. The bullet flew nearly silently, sinking into his target with the right amount of force. But something felt wrong.

John stepped forward, the gun held loosely by his side, and took a closer look at the person under the covers. Nothing seemed out of place, but there was something. He was listening intently, just in case the guards had been roused by the noise. No sound of anything. Then he heard it, the sound of a gun being leveled behind his head. “I would suggest that you place the gun on the floor, and kick it to me, but I am certain you already know that.” It was a man’s voice, pleasant, deceptively casual, but steely underneath.

Inwardly John sighed, but he did as he was told, crouching to place the gun on the floor and sliding it backwards. “Now turn around.” Slowly John rose and turned on his heels to face the man holding a gun to him. “Hands up, if you please.” John lifted them, an apologetic grin finding its way onto his face.

“I’d say sorry, but I don’t think you would believe me,” he said cheerfully, his voice low enough to not rouse anyone else still in the building but loud enough for the other man to hear.

“Hmm...I think not,” the man replied, seemingly amused. He was taller than John by quite a bit, with soft-looking auburn hair which curled a small amount . Slender and fit, but obviously worked primarily at a desk job. John could see the barest hint of gun calluses on his fingers, so he had done some field work in the past or at least was used to handling a gun. Sharp pale grey-blue eyes underneath light brown eyelashes. Overall ordinary - except for the eyes. There was nothing normal about them.

It was exactly like the picture in the file he had been given. “Mycroft Holmes?” John asked, lifting an eyebrow even as he watched the other man walk behind him and grab his arms at the wrist, handcuffing them behind his back none too gently. He shivered at the touch, lips curving into a smile as Mycroft’s long fingers touched the skin of his wrists, questioning.

“Who hired you?” Mycroft asked in an even voice as he spun John around so he was facing him.

“No one,” John replied pleasantly, testing his bindings. It had been a while since he had last been tied up, and he had a feeling this would be much more fun.

The corner of Mycroft’s lips curved up in a mockery of a smile. “What did they offer you?” he inquired in return, lifting a hand to trace fingertips down the curve of John’s jaw. It was like he was setting John’s skin on fire, and unconsciously he found himself leaning into the touch. Damn. “Money?” A long finger tilted his chin up until John was forced to meet Mycroft’s piercing eyes. “Sex?” Mycroft seemed to pause, consider that option, dismissed it with a faint smile. “No, I think not. Money, then.”

John smiled blandly, standing with his hands cuffed behind his back, disarmed. He had been in worse predicaments and gotten out unscathed. Besides, it seemed that this situation might turn out better than most, if the way Mycroft’s eyes were lingering on parts of his body as he examined him was any cue. “Checking to make sure I don’t have any hidden weapons?” John smirked.

“I’ll pay you triple your promised salary.” Mycroft’s words were flat, clinical.

“No,” John answered easily.

Mycroft circled him once, gaze intent. He lifted his eyes from John’s groin, lips curving into a full smile, suggestive. “I’m certain we could discuss...other perks that could be added to the already ample package of your - reimbursement,” the other man said blandly.

John tugged experimentally at the handcuffs binding his wrists. “I’m trusting that these would be part of your - reimbursement for my services?” Mycroft stepped closer, and John could practically see his pupils dilate, could practically feel the arousal thrumming through him. It wasn’t an outcome he had anticipated, but certainly not one he was going to say no to. From the surveillance he had carried out prior to the assassination attempt, he had gained a particular insight into his target’s preferred activities.

“Among other things.” Mycroft leaned in and captured John’s lips, fierce and possessive.

Oh yes, John thought. He had no objections.


	11. Five Times

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on this prompt: The five times Mycroft kissed John anywhere but the lips and the one time John kissed him on the lips.

The first time was - well, the first time. Mycroft stepping closer, John staring at him, their eyes locked, John’s tongue sneaking out to wet his lips in anticipation. The taller man leaned in, so close that their breaths mingled, their noses brushed - and then shifted, to the side, a finger underneath John’s chin angling his head so that Mycroft could kiss from just below his ear down his neck. John’s breath left him in a rush, and his knees quivered as Mycroft sucked marks into the skin of his neck, mouth and tongue lingering, nipping, soothing.

John closed his eyes, his lips parted, breath coming quickly, surrendering, as Mycroft continued to kiss his neck. All of his attention, all of his focus, had been drawn to the feeling of the hot, wet mouth on his bare skin. He was peripherally aware of his erection, more vaguely aware of Mycroft’s, although he could feel it against him as Mycroft crowded him against the wall.

The second and third times were - well, later. John moaned as Mycroft kissed his way down John’s belly, took John’s cock between his lips. It was positively sinful, the way the elder Holmes brother sucked cock. He choked out a cry as Mycroft took him deep, lifting his hips off the soft linen of the bed to press his cock further into Mycroft’s mouth. His hands twisted into the bedcovers (Mycroft didn’t like to be touched while he sucked cock, and John was okay with that) as he inched closer to orgasm, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps, eyes fluttering closed.

He moaned Mycroft’s name as he came, hips stuttering as Mycroft sucked him through his orgasm. When his eyes opened, Mycroft was watching him with a soft, satisfied smirk. John reached down and tugged, drawing his boyfriend up for a kiss which Mycroft turned away from, instead kissing John on his forehead before standing. He was still erect, and John looked at him, questioning, worried. There was something building between them, something brittle and breakable, and John did not want to break it, did not want to ruin it before it had truly begun.

The fourth time, John was trapped, hands tied in front of him, head bent, arse up in the air. Mycroft kissed his way down John’s spine, worshipping each bump of the bone underneath John’s skin. John whimpered, moaned, pressing his face down into the bed as Mycroft’s long finger trailed down the crease of his arse, hands gently pulling his arse open so that his tongue could follow.

The politician kissed and sucked, licked and fuck, and John’s mumblings into the duvet became increasingly incoherent until all he could do was push back against Mycroft’s talented tongue. It wasn’t long before John came - Mycroft had been teasing him, torturing him for hours - and he fell over the edge, collapsing onto the duvet as Mycroft groaned, reaching his own orgasm. John shifted as the taller man untied his wrists, drew him closer. Mycroft stilled, and John sighed inwardly, although he said nothing as Mycroft quietly kissed his cheek before tucking John against his side.

The fifth time was a night after a long separation. Mycroft had been gone for work, for a month, and John had missed him keenly. It felt strange, with Mycroft gone, like there had been a part of him missing, even as he stood at crime scenes, said ‘amazing’ and ‘brilliant’, all the while wishing he had someone to go home to. He tracked the days, tracked the hours, checking his mobile just in case.

Finally he had dozed off on the couch, waiting and wishing, only to be woken by a soft kiss to the top of the head. Come to bed, Mycroft had murmured. John said yes, even as he wished to be greeted with a kiss - a proper kiss. Mycroft didn’t look tired, didn’t look disheveled, so John took his hand and let Mycroft lead him away.

It had been nearly a year, and John didn’t know what Mycroft’s mouth tasted like. Didn’t know how Mycroft kissed, how he liked to be kissed. It was lacking, yes, but Mycroft had tensed every time John had tried, and he did not know how to change it. Everything else was fantastic, or even better, but this was an issue John did not know how to make better.

So one night, wrapped up in each other, quiet and sated, John carefully took Mycroft’s head in his hands, tender and warm, and leaned closer. Mycroft had tensed against him, his body rigid, afraid, but he did not pull away, he did not say no. Slowly John kissed him, surprised by the softness of his lips, the way Mycroft moved against him, body stirring as the politician came to life against him. Mycroft relaxed, his lips parting, allowing John’s tongue inside, and the kiss turned hot and filthy, until John was pressing closer against him.

It was everything he had wanted, everything he had been waiting for, and once they broke apart, panting, Mycroft’s eyes were focused on John’s face, searching, scared. John kissed him again, a simple chaste press of lips, and murmured what he had wanted to say but never had the courage. Mycroft smiled slowly, lifting a hand to cup John’s face. _I love you, too._


	12. The Baker on Baker Street: Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sequel to the Johncroft prompt 'The Baker on Baker Street' because someone requested it on my tumblr!
> 
> Fluffy, fluffy, and fluffy, with background Sherstrade. ;)

“Thank you for stopping by,” John told Mrs. Hudson, kissing her on the cheek. He smiled as she tittered at him, grabbing an apron from the rack. “I have to leave early and Sherlock would light the place on fire if he was left alone.” Sherlock looked up from the pastries, affronted.

“I would not,” he retorted.

“Yes you would, dear,” Mrs. Hudson patted his cheek. Sherlock scowled. “Off for a night with your young man, John?”

John blushed, scuffed his foot against the floor. “Er, yeah. Mycroft and I are going out.” His expression turned wistful. “He’s been out of town for a while.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s only been a month. Certainly you can go without seeing him for that long.”

John eyed him. “Which is why Greg comes here before and after all his shifts, plus his days off, but only when you’re working?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock said far too quickly, looking away from either John or Mrs. Hudson and immediately busying himself with rolling some pastries.

“Oh, Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson sounded excited. “You’ve found a nice young man, too?”

“No!” Sherlock looked at John, his eyes narrowed. He was certainly plotting his revenge.

“Oh, Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson said happily. “I’m so happy for you.”

Sherlock muttered something too quietly to tell, but his ears were pink and his cheeks were red. John grinned at Mrs. Hudson, who looked fit to burst. “I’ll tell Molly to let you know when Greg stops by,” he assured her. Molly Hooper was the lovely young woman who John had hired to man the front when he was baking or making deliveries.

Mrs. Hudson had retired a year ago and left the bakery to John. He had set out with the goal of expanding it, hiring Sherlock and Molly to help increase both the bakery’s productivity and its revenue. As a bonus Mrs. Hudson even came in occasionally to give John an early night with his boyfriend of four years, much to Sherlock’s chagrin. “Off with you,” Mrs. Hudson chided, making a shooing motion with her hands.

John grinned. “I’ll see you later, then.” He waved to the two in the back, said goodbye to Molly, then walked out front. A black car slid up a few seconds later and John slid in, disappointed to see Mycroft wasn’t waiting inside.

“Mr. Holmes is waiting for you at the restaurant,” his assistant assured John. She offered him a faintly apologetic smile before she turned back to her mobile.

“Thank you,” John said politely. He did always try to be polite to Mycroft’s assistants, but all he really wanted was to see his boyfriend again. A month really was too long.

It wasn’t too long before they slid up to the pavement at the restaurant. John could see Mycroft standing outside, as impeccably dressed as ever. He quickly pushed the car door open, walking over and immediately stepping into Mycroft’s arms and kissing him. Eventually they broke away, Mycroft’s cheeks pink. “Hello,” John murmured, reaching up to cup Mycroft’s cheek.

“You have flour on your face,” Mycroft said fondly, wiping it off.

John sighed. Always. Sometimes he would come home and find flour in places he didn’t know flour could go. At least Mycroft seemed amused by it rather than concerned. “When don’t I?” he asked humourously.

Mycroft chuckled, leaning into kiss him again. “Is this a satisfactory location for dinner?”

John took his first look at where they were and his eyes went wide. It was one of his favourite restaurants, but they didn’t go often. There was an open kitchen and diners could see the chefs at work. John loved to see people cook, whether it was his food or not. “Did I miss an occasion?” he asked, his grin threatening to split his face in half.

“I have sincerely missed you,” Mycroft murmured, slipping his hand into John’s. “And I know you thoroughly enjoy dining here.”

John chuckled. “That’s true.”

Mycroft smiled and they headed inside. Eventually they were sat in a small, cozy spot not far from the kitchen. It was warm enough to be pleasant, but quiet enough that they could talk and still hear each other over the chefs talking to each other. Their wine was poured - Mycroft picked, John wasn’t very savvy with alcohol - and John sipped it happily, enjoying the taste. The fact that his and Mycroft’s feet were tangled together underneath the table was simply a bonus.

“You inquired as to why I selected this restaurant to meet at tonight,” Mycroft said, his voice relaxed, content. He sipped his wine, maintaining eye contact with John the entire time. “In truth, there was a significant reason as to why. Not only is it your favourite, but the first time you allowed me to take you to dinner, we came here.” Mycroft smiled pleasantly.

John stared at him. There was an odd sort of fluttering in his stomach, nervous anticipation warring with a tense sort of excitement. He had an idea of where Mycroft’s speech was going, but he didn’t want to interrupt or spoil things. “And what a night that was,” John tried to joke. Mycroft chucked, leaned over and placed his hand on John’s.

“John, I did not expect to fall in love with you when we met five years ago,” Mycroft said softly. “I received so much more than a pastry and coffee the day we met.” His thumb stroked over the back of John’s palm. “But I do love you, and I cannot think of anything I would rather do than ask you to formalize our union.”

John blinked furiously. Only Mycroft would word it that way. “English, love.”

Mycroft looked properly taken aback for a moment. “John Watson, will you marry me? I would bend down on one knee but I am afraid I would disturb the waiters.”

John chuckled, and leaned forward, kissing Mycroft sweetly. “Yes, love. I would be honoured to marry you.”

“Even though I maintain abhorrent work hours and am utter rubbish at caring for myself?” Mycroft asked, his head tilted rougishly.

John laughed, squeezing Mycroft’s hand. “You’re marrying a baker, Mycroft. My hours aren’t much better than yours, some weeks.”

Mycroft grinned, and for a moment he looked so light and carefree that John thought he would fly. “I love you,” he murmured, heartfelt. John’s heart felt like it was overflowing, like he would burst into confetti or something equally ridiculous.

“I love you, too,” John said softly, and he meant it with all of his heart.


	13. Fox and the Hound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johncroft prompt. Mycroft is asexual, and the relationship is getting to a point where he thinks that John is going to expect them to start having sex (societal expectations and such). He's nervous about explaining to John that he's not particularly fond of the idea?

Mycroft shifted slightly to press a kiss to the top of John’s head. They had decided to watch a movie after dinner and ended up curled together on the sofa. He stroked a hand up and down John’s back, only half paying attention to the movie John had selected. It was one of Mycroft’s favourites, and he knew the entire film, word for word.

Finally the credits scrolled and Mycroft shifted slightly, stretching, John lifted his head, offered him a lazy smile. “That was brilliant,” he murmured, leaning up to give Mycroft a brief kiss.

“I am glad you liked it,” Mycroft told him, wrapping an arm around his boyfriend. He liked it, being curled up with John. The kissing wasn’t bad either.

John moved so that he was closer and pressed his lips to Mycroft’s again. His tongue brushed against Mycroft’s lower lip, tentative, questioning. Mycroft parted his lips, and John’s tongue slid inside, brushed against his. It wasn’t something Mycroft had done before, not really - his interest in kissing prior to John had been limited.

As the kissing turned more intimate, with John on top of him, Mycroft’s attention shifted from what they were doing to stamping down his innate reaction to panic. He focused on breathing, in and out, and closed his eyes. His hands, he moved down to John’s waist, no longer holding him closer but keeping him steady. He still moved with John, still kissed him back, but he was on autopilot, most of his mind engaged with the steadily rising fear. No.

John pulled back, broke the kiss abruptly, and Mycroft’s eyes flew open. “What happened?” Mycroft asked, aware he sounded breathless.

“Mycroft, are you okay?” John shifted until most of his weight was to Mycroft’s side. “You’re breathing too fast.”

“I am fine,” Mycroft insisted. “I was under the assumption that increased respiration was a noted side effect of arousal, is it not?”

John raised an eyebrow. “You passed that point already,” he informed him, his voice gentle. “You’re breathing about twice as fast as you should. I’m amazed you haven’t passed out. Talk to me, please.” John shifted so that he was sprawled out against Mycroft’s side, not invading his space but simply offering comfort should Mycroft wish it.

Mycroft swallowed. His throat felt too dry, almost like sandpaper, and his chest was starting to constrict and become unbearably tense. It felt like the world was shifting, closing in on him. At the same time, the effects of what he recognised as a panic attack were muted, with John by his side. He was able to draw comfort from the smaller man. “I don’t want to have sex.”

John curled up with Mycroft, tucking his head in the crook of Mycroft’s neck. “Okay. Why?” He wrapped an arm around Mycroft’s middle.

Mycroft focused on his breathing, on the ceiling, anything other than John. He had dreaded this conversation, which was why he had put it off until there had been no other choice. “I’m asexual. I do not experience sexual attraction towards others.” Mycroft paused, trying to figure out how to continue.

“Right. What does that mean?” John’s voice broke the silence.

“I am romantically attracted to you - I desire your company, and I enjoy kissing you, and being romantically entangled with you. But I do not desire sex, nor am I attracted to you sexually.” Mycroft cringed, his arm around John tightening unintentionally, as if he could keep John from running away.

“So you want to date me, you just don’t want to have sex with me?” John summed.

Mycroft considered the interpretation. “Yes, that seems accurate.”

“And you’re not attracted to anyone? It’s not just me?”

“I have never been sexually attracted to anyone,” Mycroft agreed. He did not know if that hurt or helped his case. His heart rate had sped up, his breathing accelerating, and the panic was becoming harder to fight off.

“Does that apply to all types of sex, or are you just not interested in penetrative, or?” John asked cautiously.

Mycroft blinked. And then blinked again. What? “Are those not all...synonymous?” he said slowly.

“Well, there’s different types of sex. There’s penetrative, which sounds like what you’re thinking about when you say sex. But there’s also oral sex, or using hands, or intercrural, or toys. Probably other things I haven’t listed.” John’s voice was almost filthy in how he could list off such things without missing a beat. “We could try some of them out, see what you like.” John shrugged. “If you don’t like it, we won’t do it. If you don’t want to try, we don’t have to, either.”

“I…” Mycroft trailed off, trying to process all that John had said. He had simply assumed that sex came as a package deal - if John wanted one thing, he would want it all, and Mycroft was not prepared to offer that. It had not crossed his mind that it could be one or the other, or one sexual act but not the rest. “I think I could be amenable to - to that.”

John smiled, leaned up, and pressed a soft kiss to Mycroft’s lips. “If you’re ever uncomfortable, or I do anything that you don’t like, you have to tell me, okay?” he insisted. Mycroft hesitated. “Mycroft, communication is important. Your happiness and your comfort is important, too. I want this relationship to be something you enjoy, not something you put up with because you think it will make me happy.”

Mycroft considered this. “I apologize for not - not bringing it up sooner.”

John shook his head. “Don’t, love. It’s okay.” Mycroft swallowed. John had not used an endearment before, not for him. He wasn’t sure what to think. What to say. “What would you like to do?” John asked, stroking a hand up and down Mycroft’s side. Mycroft tensed. “I didn’t - if you’d like, we can watch another movie and cuddle on the sofa, or I can go home, or anything, really. Whatever you want.”

Mycroft considered this for a moment. “I would - prefer to watch another movie, if you are amenable.” His voice was soft, and in his opinion, weak. He was scared, unduly so. John had just told Mycroft that his opinion mattered, that he was important, but Mycroft was still worried that it had all been an act. That John would be angry or insulted that Mycroft didn’t want to drag him to the bedroom and have his way with him.

“Excellent,” John told him, kissing him briefly before standing up. “Do you want to choose or shall I?”

Mycroft stared at him in wonder for a few moments before he offered John a faint smile. “You may choose.”

“Right.” John nodded at him, grinning, and then turned back to Mycroft’s collection of movies. “Something soppy, sad, and guaranteed to make you cry. Got it.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “I shall veto your selection if you try that, John Watson.”

“I’d like to see you try,” John challenged. Mycroft lunged up from the sofa, taking advantage of his superior height and wrapping an arm around John’s waist and bearing him to the ground. He ended up on top, staring down at John with narrowed eyes. John grinned at him, and Mycroft’s panic ebbed away. “This won’t work,” John informed him.

“Why not?” Mycroft inquired.

John laughed. “This is why.” He rolled them over, careful to avoid the furniture, and peered down at Mycroft. “I win.”

“No you don’t,” Mycroft muttered, clearly sulking.

John started tickling him, drawing a surprised huff from Mycroft who had not realized he was ticklish. It wasn’t long before the British Government was laughing so hard there were tears rolling down his cheeks as he tried to squirm away from John. Finally John stopped, leaned down, and gently pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s cheek. “I win,” he said smugly.

Mycroft eyed him. “Fine. But not - that one.”

“Yup.” John stood and helped Mycroft up. “We’re going to watch that one.”

“No.” Mycroft crossed his arms.

“I won.” John raised an eyebrow to make his point.

Mycroft stomped over to the sofa and threw himself down on it as John selected the movie and put it on. “I cannot believe you are inflicting that upon me again.”

“Everyone loves Fox and the Hound,” John informed him.

“Then humanity is full of unfeeling sadists,” Mycroft muttered.

“Maybe so. Budge over a bit, will you?” John grabbed the remote and curled up against him, pressing play once the menu appeared. “The tissue box is on the floor when you need it.” John offered him an innocent smile and then settled down as the movie began to play.

Mycroft couldn’t help a smile of his own, couldn’t help but feel like his heart was going to explode with love for the army doctor. “Thank you,” he murmured, stroking a hand up and down John’s back, a lazy caress. John shifted slightly closer, squeezing Mycroft’s hip in acknowledgement.

“You’re missing the best part,” John told him with a wicked grin. Mycroft gave him a mock scowl and turned his attention back to the movie.


End file.
